27
$e goes,* “I wi$* my dads had took* Łe time
To concentrate and do a decent job
When Łey were making us. It’s such a crime,
Łe half-arsed* cock-up of a woman’s gob
Łey gave me, for example. Just no rhyme
Or reason to it. Picture Łis: Fat Bob
Picks up a brand-new little golden pound
And says, ‘you sure Łe head’s Łe right way round?’*
28
‘Fuck me’ moans Sloggy, crouching next to Bob’s
Gigantic oily* machinery,
Which buzzes like a Sabbath gig* and €robs,
Lending Łe grimy Hurst Street scenery
A nice satanic flavour; Łen he sobs,
Ironically, of course (but Łat Ribena he*
Mixed wiŁ Łe gin had made him feel sick),
‘I can’t believe you Bob, you’re fucking €ick.
29
‘I worry about you sometimes, mate. I doubt
AnoŁer bugger’s ever had to stop
A run and pull Łe fucking blanks* all out
For such a trivial mistake. Łe top
Is meant to go Łe oŁer way about,
Besides, Łe bleedin artwork int much cop:*
It looks like some old bag out on Łe piss.
I ask ye.* Jesus. At a time like Łis!’
30
A time like what? You ask. And so you $ould.
I can’t stand stories where you haven’t got
A clue what time of day it is. I could
Have said a word about Łe Muse and what
Łe Łeme is too, to make it understood
Łis is an epic poem. But it’s not.
Łe only ‘mews’* Łat’s ever touched Łis bard
Was up Łe back end of a vicar’s yard.”*
31
(I’ve heard of poets talking to Łe dead*
And getting verses from ‘Łe oŁer side’,*
To pass on what Łeir predecessors said
In seances where, conjured to confide
Łe low-down* on Łe afterlife, instead
Łey spell out villanelles.* I’ve never tried
Myself: I’ve no need of a ouija* board
To plead for ghostly help… and be ignored.)
32
“Of counterfeits and of Łe woman/man:
Łe Quean, I sing. How’s Łat? Derivative,*
I know. I’ve tried too hard to make it scan,
It’s just a $am.* But frankly I don’t give
A damn.* I’ve done about Łe best I can.
No muse, you see: I’m just a karaoke div.*
A time like what? you ask me: was it late?
Dunno, Łe clock had stopped at ten past eight,*
33
But June Łe second, two €ousand and €ree,
Łat was Łe date: I know Łat; I could see
Some program on a portable TV*
About Łe news of Edmund Hillary
On Everest, and $erpa €ingummy,*
And how it dovetailed* wiŁ Łe Jubilee,
Or some€ing. Was it Coronation Day?
Whatever…” (just some way to make us pay
34
Our TV license fees* and our respects
To all Łat telegenic speciousness:
Łe stately, gilt-edged pomp Łat intersects
Łe nation’s gaze, till it’s as meaningless
To ask, as any play of Bertolt Brecht’s,*
Who’s really in Łe spotlight — Łem or us?
Like loyal, statuesque domestic grooms,
We hold our sofa-cades* in living rooms,
35
Łeir weal€ electroplated* on our faces
As we spark our B&H cigarettes.
Łat’s what Łe light in Tarantino’s* case is,
Nostalgia for a golden-age Łat $eds
A homely glow on us, like Łe fireplaces
We ‘upgraded’* wiŁ television sets,
And filtertips,* American sitcoms,*
Positive economics,* and atomic bombs.
36
TV’s a stand-in for Łe Briti$ sun.*
We bronze our features* in its beta rays.*
And as it reaches its meridian,
We’re mad enough to keep it in our gaze
Until some lasting damage can be done:
Our skin anneals;* our eyes begin to glaze.
I sound like one of Łose self-righteous saddos,*
But turn your telly round and watch Łe $adows
37
Reticulating* round your furniture;
Just give your own imagination sway
To picture its own mental signature.*
Perhaps you’ll question what I can convey,
Redoing* Plato’s cave* in miniature,
But is it less insane Łe oŁer way?*
To contemplate a source of radiation
Was once a sign of mental aberration.)